Your First College Hookup
It’ll start as it normally does. You, a sexually destitute, hormone-ridden Wildkitten are at your very first frat party. You’re crammed in the staircase of a grimy off campus house somehow affiliated with some fraternity that you, for whatever reason, are completely unable to pronounce the name of. You stand beside your roommate, a scrando in your PA group, and that guy who Facebook messaged you two months before school started. It’s moderately uncomfortable, and the ambiguous, watered-down liquid in the cup the inebriated bartender handed you isn’t doing enough to distract you from the fact that it’s like 200 degrees and strangers are bumping into you and the dishes in the sink are covered with week-old lasagna or puke or both.
You can practically see the awkwardness seeping out of your pores, so in your anguish, you resort to the one and only thing that can save you from this nightmare: vodka. You somehow flirt your way behind the bar and manage to steal a handle of the best vodka known to man, Skol. You decide you don’t need a chaser or even a cup because you’re not a pussy. You lift the bottle to your lips, try your hardest to forget that your parents are still at the Hilton Orrington, and you chug like the frat star you were born to be. Within minutes, you’re the life of the party. You’re standing on tables and hugging strangers or more realistically still in the corner with your three friends because you’re scared of the older girls, but still, it is literally, literally, the best night of your life because you’re in college and you’re drunk and you’re young and wild and free.
But oh, the evening is just beginning. You and your posse make your way to frat number two. First order of business: SHOTS. You slam three and hit the dance floor. Alone. You don’t give a shit. You run this school. This suburb is your bitch. You’re getting really into your interpretative dance to Fancy, when all of the sudden, you feel someone grab your waist (or maybe like your shoulder because guys at this school sometimes don’t get it). Before you go full bat shit on the dirty predator your mother warned you about, you turn around and recognize that guy from down the hall who your RA paired with this morning for your floor’s tri-daily icebreakers. “OH MY GOODDDDD!!!” you yell in his face. You both proceed to dance aggressively. Somehow, by the bridge of the song, his hands are on your derrière and your faces are alarmingly close. You know what’s coming. You told yourself you wouldn’t make out with anyone the first week of college because that would be so high school and so desperate and you’re just not that type of girl. But it’s not like he’s a stranger or anything. You practically know his life story. He’s from Oklahoma or Ohio…or wait…San Francisco? Whatever. You know one thing about him not everyone else would know: he juggles…or he has a twin. Shit. Eh, fuck it. You figure everyone around you is too drunk to notice anyway. Just a peck. 12 seconds later you’re somehow in his bed and his body is somehow on top of yours.
After you finish doing whatever it is you kids do nowadays, you throw on his sweatshirt and, as gently as you can, slip out his door. You only have to make it another three doors down and you’re home free. However, your efforts are futile. To your dismay, your turn around to find what seems like the entirety of your building, including the aforementioned RA, staring at you wide-eyed from the lounge. You smile widely and think, “it’s a good thing I’m plastered,” as you make your way to your bedroom.
The next morning, you’re awoken by the gentle caress of the soon-to-be familiar combination of nausea and regret. You hate yourself (get used to that) and you’re absolutely certain everyone at this school hates you too. Your entire college career has completely gone to waste because of one, drunken escapade. It’s over for you. You’re done.
But there’s no going back now. You rest your hand on your doorknob and conjure up the strength to endure whatever snide comments and knowing smirks are coming your way. You deserve it, you little shit. You take a breath, open the door, and face the formidable lounge members who savagely gawked at you only hours before (it’ll always be the same 5-8 engineers). You stand silently waiting for someone to notice you, waiting for someone to make some sarcastic remark, waiting for a “well you had a good night.” But nothing. Suddenly, a gangly boy who just lost a round of Super Smash Bros looks up and smiles. This is it. It’s coming. Here we go. “Hey,” he says half-heartedly.
What the fuck?
Welcome to college, you unbecoming sloot.